


Georgia Whiskey

by ColiOli



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Animal Abuse, M/M, Slow Burn, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-13 02:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11749803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColiOli/pseuds/ColiOli
Summary: After a nasty breakup with his ex-boyfriend Alex, Paul sacrifices the internship he really wanted in place for one in a small town where his clients are court mandated to attend his sessions. It doesn't help that Paul's first real client is a flat out dick who refuses to let Paul help him. But Paul begins to find out that beyond his alcohol abuse, Daryl Dixon is a much deeper man who just might be able to be saved -but only if he wants to be.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tag for animal abuse happens in only 3 paragraphs at the end of chapter 4.

The clock above Paul’s head ticked with each passing second, the hand making nearly a quarter rotation by the time Paul had taken more than a breath. Every time he inhaled he was reminded of being in a café like the one back at home. For some reason, the receptionist Olivia insisted on filling the building with an abundance whatever seasonal wax cube she could find, this month being Apple Pie.

It was the first day of Paul Rovia’s internship at a therapy clinic located in the center of a quaint Georgia town.

The town, suited for large families with broad land, was the kind of place Paul considered contradictory to where he had spent his last three and a half years where he’d attended university. This place, only an hour from campus had only one arterial in the entire town. Ironically, the single-lane street traveling alongside coin-operated meters (nearly always filled by locals) had the typical name for their foremost road; “Main Street”. The whole town was ideally lined with shops tailored to small town living. The General Store sign hung out on a pole so it dangled above the road, followed closely behind by a barber shop and local bank. There was a bar which seemed to always have Harley bikes parked out front. It didn’t matter if it was as early as eleven in the morning,  –those bikes would be lined up together in a slight tilt to the side. Two streets away from that stood the health clinic section. Within a single block radius was a doctor’s office, dentist, and tucked between the two was a mental health clinic.

It was there that Paul sat in a small office that had been loaned to him to use for his first independent therapy sessions. He was handed by the overly-cheerful secretary, a stack of files along with a logon to their server with access to an email account, patient information and his weekly schedule. Paul had arrived early and was relieved he had done so as it gave him the chance to flick through his reference materials in the form of textbooks.

The internship was without pay but Paul didn’t mind. Therapy had become his passion, and the internship was the next stepping stone before graduation and eventually working towards Youth Therapy.

He’d originally been accepted at an internship at the Youth Center in Atlanta. The plan had been to relocate from his college dorm and board with his boyfriend Alex who lived in downtown Atlanta. But after a sudden and unpolished breakup, he had considered this alternative internship since the rent for even a studio in Atlanta was far higher than his monthly income. It was then he had settled on his internship at the Breakaway River Clinic located in a smaller town (with a much lower cost of living). The only major downside to the Breakaway Clinic was that he wasn’t providing therapeutic interventions to the children that he one day planned to treat. Instead he’d be treating the people that in theory, were the end result of the same path being traveled by those Atlantic city youths.

Yet the internship still had its pros and cons. It only assigned students to see the unwilling clients mandated by court to appear in therapy. They were relatively short-term clients, so it was most ideal for the clinic that the interns managed those cases. The upside was that the clinic had many clients of its own to attend to, and therefore left the students to manage their own casework instead of passing down only the redundant paperwork.

Paul imagined the first person to walk through the door would be similar to the kind of men like on the hit television show Prison Break. Probably covered in prison tattoos mentioning how they’d violated parole or failed another U.A.

Paul fumbled through the first few files of his new clients handed to him by Olivia when he arrived. The first of them, Daryl Dixon, a local native in and out of the court systems. His latest string of DUI’s and public intoxication arrests seemed to be the reason behind the mandated therapy session.

The next was a man who had been under the idealization that he had Government intelligence which lead him to fraud hundreds on an online scheme to fund his ‘Human Genome Project’. Apparently the judge recognized jail time as ineffective when the man convinced other inmates that the CIA arrested him for said information, causing frustration for the officers when inmates pledged to get him released thinking their lives were at stake from a global disease outbreak.  

The list went on and on… and Paul took his time bouncing back between the files and his diagnosis handbook. At exactly 5 minutes past 9:00 the buzzer went off with Olivia’s voice letting him know his first client had arrived.

Daryl Dixon was led in the room by Olivia who waved cheerily at him before closing the door. Daryl Dixon didn’t have that ‘prison’ look to him that Paul had been anticipating. Automatically, Daryl Dixon gave off the biker vibe in his leather clad vest and black boots under denim jeans. Daryl stood with his shoulders back as he looked down to the smaller man in the room. Paul thought that Daryl was probably the kind of biker that sped off on those rattling vehicles just to feel the bikes power. But most of all, Paul thought that his blue eyes seemed to stand out even through eyes that were slightly narrowed the moment he walked through that doorway.

Paul immediately stood up and reached out to shake Dixon’s hand only to be sized up by the older man who instead of returning the gesture, reached across him and sets his keys on a small table next to the door.  

“Please, have a seat,” Paul said, suddenly choosing to use his extended arm to motion towards the grey couch. Paul realizes his evaluation books are scattered about the desk creating a mess, so he quickly attempts to put the textbooks away. He wasn’t fast enough to remove the diagnosis handbook and caught Daryl starring at it as he took a seat on the couch.

Paul cleared his throat and set Daryl’s file over the book. He tucked a strand of his blonde hair behind his ear. “So, Daryl Dixon.” He pulled out a writing pad stuck to the back of a clip board. “I’m Paul Rovia, and you may call me Paul. I’m advised to tell you that I am an intern, and if this is at all a concern of yours than we can make further arrangements to meet with a qualified Psychologist on your next visit.”

Paul paused, observing the hunter for any sense of his response. “Is that alright with you?”

The man shrugged. “Don’ make much difference.”

“Awesome-, I mean ok, let’s get started then.” He clicked his pen and held it in position. “So, tell me a little about yourself.”

“Why?” The man was biting his nail and took a piece off, spitting it on the floor.

“Only if you’d like of course.” Paul sat up straight in his chair. “Um, well we can start with a series of introductory questions to get started.” He twisted his body in order to reach for one of the books he’d put aside only to have the stack of papers in his lap fall and scatter across the floor.

His heart momentarily pulsated when he heard a scoff from the man on the couch. Apparently his first therapy session was not going to be his smoothest impression.

Once he’d managed to pick up the papers and place the book on top of his lap, he looked up to see Daryl starring directly at him. He was older than Paul by possibly ten or so years. He had solid dark brown hair that grew near to his shoulders. It wasn’t the best kept of hair, but the guy didn’t seem like one of those kind of men who spent their time obsessing over appearance. He was quite the opposite of that really. His hands were soaked with the stains of what appeared to be oil on top of minor cuts. His jeans were faded and distinctly stained the same as his hands. Paul couldn’t help but notice that underneath his leather vest was a black t-shirt that held on tightly to his firm arms.

Paul cleared his throat. “Um…” he opened the textbook and jumped to a bookmarked page. “Daryl. Is it alright that I call you by your first name?”

Daryl shrugged.

“Have you ever been to see a counselor before?”

“Nah.”

“Ok.” Paul wrote a quick scribble. “You were court mandated to be here based on consecutive DUI charges and other public disputes also involving drinking. But disregarding what the judge stated, what do you think your problem is?”

‘Ain’ gotta’ problem.”

The scratch of the pen against the clipboard filled the room against the substantial silence. He could hear the tick of the clock on top of the doorway, followed closely by a screaming toddler in the lobby. He could distinctly hear Olivia’s voice asking the parent to please take their toddler outside as she explained that this was a therapist clinic and required silence for its clients.

Paul glanced at his list of questions.

“So um, how does this problem make you feel?”

“Ya deaf? I said ain’ got any problem.”

Paul blinks and nervously shakes his head. “Um yeah, ok. I guess you did address that.” He pauses, thoughtlessly gripping the note pad with both of his hands until his knuckles turn white.

Paul glances at the list of questions again feeling the pressure of Daryl’s dark eyes trained on his every movement. He can’t help but smirk when he sees the next one on the list.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh um nothing.” He glances trying to read further. “How about… What do you expect to get—“

“Ask the question.” Paul blushes as he looks up to the man who has one leg extended out in front of him, his hand trained limp against his mouth.

“It’s not relevant really. I don’t feel its truly necessary.”

“Seemed ta’ make ya’ laugh.”

“Well,” Paul sighed. “It’s just that it asked you to state your current mood.”

“What’s so funny ‘bout that?”

“Nothing. Just, um.” Paul shifts in his chair and stares down at his near blank sheet of nearly incoherent scribbles. “You know I’ll be honest with you. You’re my first client. And I normally have my things together. I’m just a little…”

Daryl shrugs. “Ain’ matter. Don’ need ta’ deal with this shit anyways,” with that Daryl Dixon stands from the plush couch and grabs his keys on the way out.

 

**

 

The week had truly never seemed to end. Paul checked his phone after he killed the engine to his car, the light of the screen illuminating his face in the darkness of the parking lot. On Friday’s it was a ritual that he and his best friend meet at their usual bar and compare each other’s weeks against another.

By now it had been nearly a month at his internship, and he’d somehow needed to skip the last few ritual meetings with his friend in order to catch up on case notes on the weekends. But after receiving several death threats from his neglected friend, he pulled himself from his work and drove to the bar.

Paul walks inside the only bar on the main street, shutting the wooden door behind him before locating his friend Tara across the smoky bar. Overhead the song ‘ _Tennessee Whiskey’_ plays on the stereo.

His friend Tara, a young adult nearing her 30’s drove the half hour drive from her home in a neighboring city. She’d in the end stayed in the same general vicinity as Paul without much else to move on from since graduating. He’d met her in a campus kick boxing class. With her being the only female of the class, most of the men chose to practice with other men of the same size leaving Tara left out until Paul befriended her. She eventually finished her degree in Creative Writing though still waitressing at a diner until able to support herself within a competitive field against other writers.

“Jesus! You are such a prick!”

“Hello, I missed you as well my dead-beat writer friend.”

“Shut up ass.” She observes her friend as he slides into a chair across the table from her. “Seriously though. What the fuck? Where have you been?”

“You knew I was going to be busy when I accepted the internship.”

“Yeah but I didn’t read the small print text- ‘too busy for your _best_ friend!’”

“I’m sorry. I think I’m getting the hang of things finally.” Paul yawns and then rubs his eyes with the back of his hands.

“Long day?”

Jesus sighs.

“I swear to God if Alex is saying things again, I’ll—“

“No its not him.”

“Then tell me!”

“I can’t. It’s a violation of—“

“Yeah shut the hell up. We both know that rule doesn’t exist between friends. Besides? Who am I going to tell anyways?”

“It’s not a rule. It’s a _Law_ Tara.”

“Same difference. Tell me.”

Paul sighs. “You might write about my clients.”

She scoffs. “As if! They aren’t exactly the portrayal of female erotica.”

“Yeah, and how’s that going for you?”

“Not so well! Now back to you. What’s up?” She pushes a drink towards him that she had ordered before his arrival.

“It’s this patient I have. He’s got to be in his later 30’s, maybe close to 40. I’m not sure right now. But he’s such a douchebag! I tried to do his intake in the beginning and I couldn’t get more than five words from him the whole session that didn’t involve him mocking me or telling me he didn’t have a problem. I have weekly sessions and they are the worst out of my whole week. It’s like this guy literally resents me for existing in his life!”

“What’s his deal?”

Paul twists his face. “I don’t know, I mean if I knew why he was such a dick— “

“No I mean, why’s he even there? Separation? Divorce? Mommy issues?”

“Oh. Alcohol abuse. Court mandated sessions.”

Tara clicks her tongue. “Rough, dude.”

“You’re telling me. What are we drinking anyways?”

“Mai Tai. Like it?”

“Not really a sweet drink kinda guy.”

“Cool.” She pulls the drink from him and moves it next to her near empty glass before waving at the bartender mouthing the word ‘beer’ when he catches her attention. The bartender brings over a cool glass of beer with moisture on the side of the glass that dampens Paul’s fingers as he takes a drink.

“I don’t know what to do. He’s my first real troubled client and I’ll look like such an idiot if I can’t get through to him.”

“They can’t all be perfect clients. Just sucks your first one is that one.”

“Yeah but if I want to be great at this Tara, I mean like really _great_ , I can’t settle right away for the ‘uncooperative client’ card.” 

“Fuck him. If he’s there for court and he’s not taking it seriously, why stress it then? He’s not really your problem.”

“Major point here… I’m his _Therapist_?”

“What I mean is, if he’s not willing to try then there’s not much you can do for him.”

“I don’t know Tara,” Paul whines, resting his forehead on his arm while rocking his back and forth.

“Jesus! No really, Jesus knock it off.” She dramatically slams her hand on the counter. “Screw this. It’s a shot kind of night anyways.”

Tara flags down the bartender and orders another round of drinks including two shot glasses of caramel colored whiskey. They toss their shots back, both wincing at the burn of the liquor as it slowly descends down their throat.

“He’s just… I don’t know. Impossible! How am I ever going to get through this internship if I can’t learn to communicate with an addict?”

“Well dude, they’re not exactly the easiest people convince to do anything they don’t want to do. You remember Spencer from Freshman year?”

“Oh yeah, the rich Prat.”

“Yeah, well he turned into an alcoholic and went off the deep end after college. It got so bad one night that he shot and killed himself in his mom’s house who is a congressman. She’s now a strong advocator for substance abuse last I heard. Some M.A.D.D. board member or something.”

“Woah.” Paul lifts his second shot glass and the two cheers with a clank of their glasses.

Tara makes a grotesque face and imitates breathing fire.

“What if this guy turns out like Spencer?”

“Well then save him. Get him to open up using your crazy psych ju-ju. I mean, he’s got no further to fall from here. What harm could you possibly do to the guy?”

Paul sighs. “Yeah, you’re technically right.” Paul mindlessly works on his beer while listening to the strum of the radio above them. He had assumed when Daryl walked out their first session that it’d be his last time seeing him and the memory of his first session would fade into the past. But before he left the clinic he’d browsed through his next weeks schedule to see that Daryl Dixon had in fact rescheduled. Three other sessions followed, all of them just as awful for Paul as the first one.

Whenever Paul would ask, ‘How are you feeling today? What are your goals this week? How are things going with the sobriety?’, he’d immediately receive the response that none of it was his damn business if Daryl didn’t want it to be.

He’d even gone as far as to insult Paul on their third session, telling him he was nothing but a rich kid from stuck up parents thinking he knew all the tricks to saving those with messed up lives.

Paul had bit his tongue on that one and maintained his professional image.

If anything could be learned from his troubled client Daryl Dixon, it was how Paul could practice having all sorts of slanders thrown his way while keeping his mouth shut.

Paul sighs. “I just wish I could get him to stop being such an asshole.”

“Think of it this way. He came in there thinking he knew everything about you, am I right? Thought so. He’s trying to show you that he’s in control of your sessions. You don’t discuss what he won’t allow because right now –he’s got control. Change that.”

“You’re probably right.” In truth he had been allowing Daryl to throw the blows.

“Of course I am stupid.” She punches him in the shoulder. “Last round on me then we call it good?” 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pre-apologies for any mistakes.

The temperature had taken a modest declining dip since Paul had last taken a foot in the bar with Tara. Georgia weather finally gave up its attempt on scorching heat and instead allowed the air a subtle breeze that tickled along Paul’s neckline when he stepped outside. The early beginning of decaying leaves begun as their fragile skeletons rattled among one-another against the breeze in their last attempt to cling to tall trees.

Two weeks had passed since the night Paul and Tara had met at the bar. In the meantime, he’d managed to do nothing else but drink black coffee in the office all the way to isolating himself in his apartment with homemade Thai food intended to last the duration of the week. He’d been buried in paperwork following each of his clients including a full-page report that he kept on each of them.

Despite his original eagerness to function as a therapist, he’d begun to discover that most of his clients had petty cases and that his excitement was quickly deteriorating. The local judge seemed to dislike holding charges on the town folk so instead sent them off to therapy in order to likely advert any disgruntled neighbors. Paul typically had an easy time addressing the concerns of each client and didn’t find it challenging to come up with a resolution. Using his diagnosis handbook at this point had been rarely needed. His time had been spent mostly addressing the abundance of paperwork and techniques on how to stay on top of that.

Essentially everything about therapy at Breakaway River with his clients felt like a complete waste from his training over the last few years. He was beginning to regret not sucking it up and taking the internship in Atlanta. Perhaps then he would have learned something dealing with real life cases that challenged him to think outside the box.

Like how it seemed to be with Daryl Dixon.

Despite the endless contemplating he’d spent on the case, Paul accepted that he was out of options. Technically Dixon only needed to complete the required hours of his mandated therapy. His progress was confidential and therefore a judge could not require him to keep going after the designated term, even if Daryl had refused to participate. The next court date for Daryl fell around the same time Paul’s internship ended –in two months.

But he’d gotten nowhere in the last couple of weeks and it became obvious to Paul that the alcohol addict was trying to spend the time not doing the one thing he’d been sent here to do; the therapy. And Paul knew he didn’t choose to come here on his own free will and typically addicts don’t truly want the help unless they really wanted the change.

But Paul wasn’t going to flip the table so easy and call it a game. He’d considered Tara’s advice and decided instead to turn the table instead.

Dixon normally arrived late, usually about 5 minutes past 9:00. In apprehension of this Paul decided the following Monday to show up to work over an hour early that morning. With this extra time he sat at his desk with a fresh cup of coffee and poured over Dixon’s court material. He had decided over the weekend that if Daryl wouldn’t reveal relevant information to him, then somewhere in that file he might find something insightful. There wasn’t much in the file besides a brief police report about each of the specific incidents; bar fights, two DUI’s,.

But something did eventually catch his attention. It was a hand written letter to the judge provided by a local sheriff. Paul held the worn paper out in front of him as he sipped on the steaming mug.

 

_‘To whom it may concern,_

_I know that it may seem that Daryl Dixon is another problem in this town that would be better kept out of sight. I’d like to personally vouch for Daryl Dixon as a Sheriff of this town for the last 9 years of local service. He is facing difficult times due to the death of his brother, a murder if you can recall from two years prior. He has been a personal friend of mine for many years and I have never before witnessed behavior such as this until his brother’s death. I would like to request that in response to his most recent arrest, that instead of jail time, that he face Therapy to overcome his grief. I do believe that this may be his last chance and making a change and I hope you’d consider that his life is on the line._

_With Regards,_

_Sheriff Rick Grimes_

Paul read over the letter at least twice more and at exactly 9:00 he slipped it back into the manila folder. As anticipated, Olivia rang at 9:07 and escorted Daryl to the office where he placed himself on the couch.

Daryl looked more worn over the course of their last few meetings. Over the weeks it was obvious that the rougher man was struggling with not picking up the habit of drinking again. Though subtle, Paul detected the shaking of Daryl’s hands whenever he raised a hand to chew on his nail. Paul imagined that his skin would be clammy from the slight hint of a sweat that streaked across his pallor skin.

These signs raised Paul’s heart rate, knowing that he was failing at figuring out how to help the older man who might not be able to contain his withdrawal.

“I’d like to bring up something this session. Just understand that before I begin, I can only tell the judge if I think our sessions were successful or not. Which at this point they’re not going so well, as I’m sure you are aware. You show up late each day and, this leaving out the door before we are finished? I won’t have it anymore. I won’t even count our session in your log. Are we clear?”

Daryl shrugs his shoulder.

“Good.” He sighs and folds his arms across his chest. “I want to bring up your brother today.”

The older man deflects Paul’s pale green gaze. “Ain’ nothin’ to say.”

“I read a letter given to the judge by a friend of yours. Your friend Rick Grimes seems to think that he has a lot to do with your drinking.”

Daryl shrugs and brings a shaking hand up to his mouth where he bites on a thumb nail.

“How was he killed, Daryl?”

“Don’ matter. ‘S done, is done.” Daryl glances at the clock.

“An untimely death is not so simple.”

For once, the constant rebuttal from the man has lost its strength and silence fills behind Paul’s words as Daryl seems to contemplate this. His head drops and when he brings it up again, he registers Paul who hasn’t once looked away. Daryl Dixon tenses when their eyes lock –feeble blue and verdant green eyes that for the first time find each other. Daryl’s lip twitches from the corner of his mouth where Paul’s mind distantly wanders.

Paul registers the subtle chestnut hair around Daryl’s mouth where he hasn’t recently shaven. He can’t help but notice the way Daryl’s lips that are typically narrowed in a tense expression are now slack as if the words want to escape.. 

Daryl scoffs and promptly leans forwards towards the younger man. “The hell you think you know about that shit? What righ’ you got bringin’ this up like you meanin’ to stir up that shit inside my head? Now what? You goin’ and digging up shit from the judge jus’ to prove yer point?” 

“Have you ever had a chance to read the letter your friend Rick left you?”

Daryl scoffs.

“No? It was really good –in the sense that you can really tell he gives a damn about you. He literally pleaded that you were given a chance. Not because he didn’t want you in jail and instead thought it’d be comical to watch you suffer by sitting here with me. No. He asked that you were given a chance to save your life! He literally cares about you and I can’t fathom how you’re sitting there acting like you’re better than even trying.”

Daryl adverts Paul’s gaze.

“Now, I’m really tired. I slept only 2 hours last night, so I’m going to help myself to a cup of coffee in the break room. I’ll grab an extra just in case because it seems like you could use one yourself. But this is your _last_ chance. When I get back you’re either not here –and we are done with this, or you’re going to at least give this a chance. If not for yourself, then do it for your friend.” Paul runs a hand over his beard. “Please excuse me.”

He arrives five minutes later and pauses outside the office door with two steaming coffees in each hand. Paul coaxes himself to take a calming breath. He’d done all he could for the man. But Tara was right –if Daryl wasn’t willing to try for himself then it was out of Paul’s hands. Paul navigates the second coffee between the clutch of his arm and against his chest in order to open the door.

He truly did expect to see the couch had been vacated. He imagined Daryl storming out and telling Olivia to ‘fuck off’ on the way out when she’d ask him to reschedule. He imagined it so vibrantly that he could have swore he heard it taking place in the breakroom waiting for the coffee to brew.

But there he was, chewing on his nail refusing to look Paul in the eye. Paul didn’t make a sound, just handed Daryl the coffee, surprised by the muttered ‘thank you’ that escaped the man’s mouth, whether he actually meant it or not.

Paul sits down across from Daryl and takes a drink of his coffee. He waits for Daryl to take a drink of his own cup before breaking the silence. He doesn’t know why he does it—it’s a mindless habit of his that he has done for as long as he can remember. On his styrofoam coffee cup he engraves the shape of a small turtle with the press of his pen while waiting for Daryl. He sets the cup down and eyes Daryl is still holding his half-empty cup with a shaky clutch.

“What happened to him?”

“Ain’ nothin’ much I can do anymore. ‘Was dumb.”

“Your brother?”

Daryl nods once.

“Was he younger?”

“Older.”

Paul considers the note book next to him and the pen that rests in his hand. He contemplates what his approach has been with Daryl and instead sets the pen on the pad. Daryl watches him do this and for the first time meets Paul in the eye.

 “Did he drink much?”

“Was drunk until it happened. Sun up to sun rise.”

“Was it his drinking that brought on his death?”

“Naw. Other stuff.”

“Bad stuff?” Paul leans in, folding his arms across his knees in an attempt to match Daryl’s eye level.

“Sold drugs –meth. Pissed off the wrong type and they wanted his blood.”

Paul nods, allowing Daryl’s words a chance to resonate around the room. For the first time the sound of the ticking clock is washed out of the room. He doesn’t think of the time, or the case notes, or anything really. He allows himself to see on Daryl’s level and let Daryl do the talking.

“Don’ matter though. Coulda’ been me at some point to. Jus’ followed Merle around all the time.”

 _Merle_. Paul holds onto the name in his mind, sketching it over and over so it stays kept by memory.

“And when he was murdered you stopped?”

“I stopped ‘fore that. Rick Grimes, he stopped me.”

Paul’s face falls into a solemn expression when he says, “Rick… seems like he is a good friend.”

“Saved his kid. Ever since then Rick jus’ took me in. Got me a job, place to stay and everythin’.”

“You saved his son?”

“Little spit-fire was set out to cause trouble –impress his old man or somethin’. Got one of his dads guns and took it to a bad drug house up town. I met him outside with the pistol drawn on me. Grabbed ‘im and took him back to Rick’s house.” Daryl scoffs. “Gun’s safety wasn’ even switched off.”

Paul observes Daryl, the way he keeps his gaze downcast at this confession. No pride, no glory. Nothing. But beyond the guise, in front of him was a man who took the risk of exposing himself to the Sheriff in order to save a child.

Paul decides to switch the conversation, not wanting to press the man too much. “What are your plans for the rest of the week?”

“Don’ do much with my time ‘sides work.”

“You don’t have any particular hobby you enjoy?”

Daryl shrugs. “Like fixin’ stuff. Motorcycles and such.”

“Are you a mechanic?”

Daryl nods.

They both finish the last few drinks of their coffee in silence.  

Paul glances at the clock and interrupts the stillness. “Well, we’ve blown through the whole hour.” Paul grins at the man. “You’re free to go.”

Paul stands and waits for Daryl in front of the door. He pauses before opening the door for the taller man. “Daryl, I do have one assignment of yours, if you do decide to return. I want you to think about this. You don’t have to give me an answer. Just think about why it was so easy for you to stay for your friend’s benefit, but impossible to stay for your own?”

 

**

 

 

“No I’m not joking. The gym here has about 10 machines. I’m just going to start running again.” He walks through the dark parking lot with his cell phone held firm against his shoulder. The lighting from over ahead comes from a flickering street lamp that is buzzing with a last leg of its life. “There’s this river road I spotted earlier.”

Over the phone Tara jokes, “Don’t go alone you idiot.”

“Yes ‘Mother’, I will make sure to bring my pepper-spray.”

“As if! Your kung-fu boxing skills could totally kick their ass!”

Paul laughs, “You remember the time—“ He stops mid-step and slowly removes the phone from his ear.

_“Paul, you there?”_

His senses become hyperaware as he stares in shock up ahead. Paul casts a glance over his shoulders and twists his body around checking his surroundings. It’s the yellow flicker above his head coming from the street light that brings him back to reality. He can hear Tara over the phone still trying to find out where he went.

_“Helloooo?”_

“Tara, I’ll call you back.”

“What?”

“I’ll call you back okay? Someone trashed my fucking car.” He hangs up on his friend and dials the police.

*

Within the full hour he’d spent at the gym, someone unseen in the dark had broken two of his side windows out and keyed the word ‘ _Fucker_ ’ on his driver’s side door. The person took the extra time to ransack his glove compartment and trunk, trashing random stuff around his car –even going as far as to take his Tylenol bottle and scatter the pills. Old school papers left in his trunk had been shredded and scattered around the parking lot. But it was the word “ _fucker_ ” carved into his car that infuriated Paul each time he focused on it.  

It wasn’t like it was a nice car to begin with –just a steady junker that he could maintain and get him from point A to B and back again the next day. But it still caused his blood to boil when he looked at the time that someone spent to target his car specifically when the few other cars near him were left completely untouched. Not that seeing any of the other cars trashed would make him feel particularly relieved in any way, but _why him_?

He sat on the hood of his car waiting for the police to arrive.

“I’m not kidding you Tara, whoever did this literally went out of their way. I’m furious.”

“Who do you think would do that? One of your clients? It’s a small enough town right?”

He sighs, rubbing the bridge between his eyes. “I don’t know –this literally doesn’t make any sense to me. I haven’t pissed off anyone _this bad_.”

“Not even that douche-hole you told me about?”

“Not like this, I don’t think…”

“You did say he had a temper.”

“Well, I don’t know. Today I did say that I would hold him accountable if he didn’t attend the full sessions, but I don’t think he’d do this. Not over something like that.”

Paul spots a pair of lights that slow down and turn into the parking lot. “Hey gotta go. The police are here – _finally_.”

The Sheriff parks the vehicle and approaches Paul. He pulls out his flashlight from his belt and shines it on Paul’s face before flashing it at the car.

“This happen while you were in there?”

“Apparently. Just over an hour and this happened.”

The Sheriff walks over the broken glass on the concrete causing his boots to squelch with each step he takes. He leans over and inspects the inside of the vehicle using his light to carefully go over every surface. He stands up and inspects the exterior, focusing his light on the word carved into the maroon paint. “Know of anyone who might do such a thing?”

“Afraid not. Just moved here over a month ago. Haven’t really had the chance to make enemies.”

The sheriff peers at Paul and then responds to a dispatcher over his radio.

“I didn’t think that this was this kind of town, Officer.”

“It’s not,” he says looking Paul directly in the eye.  “You sure you know of no one who would do this?”

Paul slides off the hood of his car and approaches the Sheriff. “Honestly, no. I work all day and am home during the night. I just started coming to this gym as of today. This has to be a random crime because there is no way I’ve pissed anyone off this bad in such a small frame of time.”

The sheriff stands straight up. “Not much I can tell you. I can call someone I know and get you a tow.”

“It runs. They just messed with the exterior, thankfully.”

“That’s good then. All I can do is help you start a Case for this. Honestly there’s nothing much I can do from here unless you got any leads.”

Paul nods and folds his arms across his chest. “Thanks anyways, for taking the time.”

The Sheriff fills out a Case Number form and hands it to Paul instructing him what to do from there, and what they may be able to do on their end.

“This stuff don’t really happen here. I’m sorry this was your warm-welcoming.”

“It’s alright officer. I believe what goes around, comes around to those asking for it.”

The officer tips his hat. “Need anything you give me a call. Take care.”

After the officer had pulled off Paul looks down to the Case pamphlet and sees where the officer filled out his name next to a phone number.

_Sheriff Rick Grimes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't dread, Daryl has ALOT more opening up to do. This chapter was about Paul realizing how much more Daryl has to offer. And of course his poor car. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!  
> And thank you a bunch for all of the kind reviews left on the first chapter.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s an insistent knock on the door of Paul’s apartment. When he pulls open the creaking door he’s shocked by a sudden throw of a fist to his arm.

“‘Sup dude?”

“Hello to you too,” he says as he steps aside and lets Tara through the doorway.

Paul smiles at his friend as he tenderly rubs on his stiff arm. How he ended up with such a violent friend, he’ll never know.

Before Tara he’d always been friends with the Hippie type. He seemed to bond with the type of students majoring in Philosophy –the kind who would interrogate each other with life questions and every answer would always be accompanied by a deeper uncertainty.

Tara was far from the kind who wanted to stretch apart their sentences. Anytime Paul might interject an opposing idea from her own he was usually subdued with her typical slugs across his arm to ‘bring his hippie-Jesus soul back to Earth,’ as she so-called it.

But despite their imbalance, they seemed to pervade gaps in each other’s lives that Paul hadn’t realized were needing to be filled. Originally their friendship was slow, the kind that he expected may not last beyond college. That is until their friendship turned into something more meaningful. It happened when Tara had painfully endured the end of her relationship with Rosita who decided she was straight in the end after all.  Tara spent weeks in her dorm refusing to leave. It took Paul to pull her from the room and teach her to accept that Rosita as still a good person who hadn’t intended to hurt Tara despite her change of sexuality. Each day Paul would push her to reach out to Rosita who was just as hurt as Tara, and eventually rekindle a friendship between them.

Of course, when Alex and Paul split, the only way Tara attempted to return the favor was by threatening to harm the man any time Paul brought him up.

But in her defense, Paul felt that in the end, Alex deserved Tara’s unreserved protective nature.

Paul hadn’t had the best upbringing. He’d always felt alone and was careful to let people in. But Tara had become an acceptation. If anything, she’d become the type of family he wished he hadn’t missed out on. They were just like siblings who complemented each other’s attributes. She was quick to jump to accusations, Paul was patience and reason.

“Nice place dude.”

“I’ll give you the grand tour.” He holds his arms out to direct around the studio dwelling. “My bedroom, my kitchen, my couch, and…” he reaches in an aquarium tank and pulls out a small turtle. “Donatello.”

“Oh Donatello! I missed this little guy!”

 She removes the turtle from Paul’s open palms and pretends to kiss his face. Donatello was what the shop-owner had told Paul was a Russian Tortoise. He bought Donatello during his early college years finding that having a companion to study with made his nights less void. Even though he was just a turtle who easily fit into the palms of someone’s hands, Donatello had a gentleness in his eyes and an eagerness for treats that quickly earned him a spot in Paul and Tara’s heart.

She put Donatello on the floor and hovered over him as he patted across the old hardwood flooring. “What’s on the game plan for tonight?”

Paul crossed his arms across his chest and leans against the interior brick wall of the older building. “Well, I thought we could have a couple drinks up here. Watch a movie?”

“No way dude. I mean, I’m down to have some pre-game shots with you but let’s go do something! Is there anything fun in this town?”

“Why do you think I suggested the movie?”

“That bar has a pool table,” she stated matter-of-factly.

Paul weighs this idea and considers it with a shrug of his shoulders. “Fine. But we are finishing that tequila before we go. I won’t have it mocking me about that night any longer.”

“Learn to hold your liquor then!”

Paul flips her off as he heads to the kitchen to work on cutting a lime while Tara put Donatello back in the aquarium. Soon after they are licking salt from the backs of their damp hands and drinking full shot glasses of tequila before sucking on a lime wedge before heading off to the bar.

*

Tara leans over the pool table with her erect pole, ready to take aim at the white ball. She takes her shot and a sudden clap of the balls fills the bar.

“Damn,” she mutters while stepping aside for her smirking friend.

Paul leans over the table with his right elbow stretched behind him as his left arm directs the end of the stick. He takes a breath before taking his shot. “Hah!” He taunts when his striped ball richetites off the felt wall and lands directly in an adjacent hole.

His friend is hardly paying attention to the clever play. She’s devoured in her phone with the bright light illuminating her face in contrast to the dim bar lighting.

“Man, Rosita just had a break up with that asshole Abraham. I warned her that there was something going on with that girl at his work. Sandra, Sasha, or something. “Bitch-face”.” she mumbles as she texts her friend.

“She okay?” Paul asks as he smudges chalk onto the end of his stick.

“I don’t know man. She said she’s a wreck. I feel like I should be with her.”

“Tara, careful.” Jesus warns as he eyes her face up and down.

“What?” Now it’s her turn to cross her arms.

“You know how you feel towards her. I just don’t want you getting hurt again.”

“Well she’s not like that anyways. I respect that. Seriously. I just want to be there for her.”

Paul sighs. “So you’re leaving then?”

“Would you be upset with me if I did?”

It was almost inconvenient that she would drag him out and get him nearly drunk before dipping out. His cheeks were fuzzy from the last couple of rounds and his feet unsteady if he tries to stand still long enough. In truth though, he really did need to go home soon anyways. And from the sounds of it Rosita could use the same support Tara offered him when he went through his last break up.

“Fine. Is she coming to get you?”

“I can drive,” she scoffs as she dials Rosita. “Hey, on my way. Be there as soon as I can, okay? Okay. Bye.”

Paul rolls his eyes at her when she looks back at him.

“What?”

“You know what.”

“I’m fine, okay?” She rolls her eyes at him as she walks past grabbing her coat from the top of a bar stool as she heads out the front door.

Paul nearly missed him on his way out.  If it wasn’t for those wings on the back of the vest he might not have even turned to look. But he knew that vest from the moment his peripheral vision registered it.

Daryl.

At the bar.

Not that he wasn’t really allowed to drink –it wasn’t like he was in rehab. But none the less the man was already drunk by the looks of it. His features appeared long and heavy as he sat at the bar striking up a conversation with the Bartender.

He was a regular, by the looks of it.

Paul stood behind him staring at the back of his head. The way he could strike up a conversation with the bartender—the kind of talk that Paul undoubtedly craved from the man.  

He shook his head. It would do more harm than good to even say hi to the man. It wasn’t considered ethical to establish a relationship outside of the therapist-client boundaries and he’d be crossing those narrows lines.

Paul pulls himself from temptation that he can’t put his finger on besides wanting to see his client’s success. He reluctantly follows Tara out to the street in front of the bar.

“You sure you’re okay to drive?”

“Yeah dude stop worrying.”

“She seriously can’t come and get you?”

“Dude, I’m fine! I only had a little to drink.”

“But those tequila shots and the beer?”

“Jesus. Stop! I can hold my liquor. You’re the one who can’t!”

Paul sighs. “I know but,”

“Jesus. I’ll be okay. She’s really upset right now and I can’t ask her to drive. Besides, she needs me and I want to be there for her.”

He nods his head and runs a couple fingers over the hair covering his chin. “Fine, but call me when you get there.”

She gave him a quick one-armed hug before getting in her car. He watches in the dark ass his friend pulls away, starring down the road as the glow of her taillights turns around the corner. Paul begins to head for home when he sees _it_ out of the corner of his eye.

In the parking lot is the reflection of a key that deflects an overhead light. The person exhales a cloud of smoke that dissipates in the glow of the light above. But when they turn their back, two angel wings stare back at Paul.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He debates it there –how easy it’d be to turn and leave. Either make nothing of it and continue their sessions as if he hadn’t seen anything. Or he could bring it up in their next appointment and degrade the man for falling back against everything he was supposed to be working towards. He could let him do it. Watch him drive home and cross his fingers that he made it home safe.

But that wasn’t Paul.

“You’re really going to be that person?”

Daryl turns and speaks with the cigarette still between his parted lips. “The hell you doin’ here?”

Paul scoffs. “That’s all you’ve got to say?” He folds his arms across his chest. “Fine. I’ll be honest, I live up the street and do come here on occasion. Yes, I’m a therapist who also has a social life and drinks. That’s about the only thing there is to do here strangely enough. But I didn’t expect to see this on my way out the doors tonight.”

“Ain’ yer business righ’ now.”

“Maybe it is. Has the thought of your friend Rick coming to the scene of you wrecking on the highway ever crossed your mind?”

Daryl scoffs. “Bullshit.”

“What’s bullshit about that? It’s going to happen sooner or later with the direction you’re headed in.”

Daryl takes one last draw from the cigarette and stomps on the smoldering butt with his boot. “Nah, that’s a bullshit excuse. Yer’ jus’ concerned that you ain’ got into my head yet and changed my mind.”

Paul nods his head. The amount of shots he and Tara had drank that night catches up with his balance and he can feel himself tilting to the side. But its his boldness that surprises him the most when he drinks.

 “Fine. You got me there. I can’t figure you out. I’ve tried all I can think of without crossing any sort of line for code of conduct. But what I do know is that you’re a good person. So yeah, I’ve decided that I’ll step across that line every now and then. If it means making a difference, then what the hell?”

Daryl turns his gaze towards a group of male bikers who stumble out of the bar and take off on their sputtering bikes. He watches the group speed down the road then turns his attention back to Paul who hasn’t once let his eyesight wander.

“Give me your keys.” Paul extends his arm out.

“I ain’ givin’ you my keys.”

He sighs. He really didn’t have the patience for this right now as he felt the weight of the alcohol weighing on his body. “Fine. Just come crash on my couch then. I won’t say anything to you the rest of the night. In fact, I’m tired as hell. I’ve had a long week and I’m regretting all the shots from earlier. All I could use right now is a little sleep. Just come to my place and we won’t ever speak of this again.”

Daryl scoffs and flips Paul off as he turns to sit on the bike. He’s fumbling with the keys again when Paul moves forward and places his hand over the ignition.

 “If you leave on this bike, I’m going to call Rick right now.” Paul figures that if Daryl wouldn’t go to therapy for himself but for the sake of someone else, then maybe the same idea would change his mind.

 With Paul’s free hand he pulls out his phone from his sweatshirt pocket and holds it out in the air.

“Whatever man. You ain’ even got his number.”

“Think again. I have a police report from him _with_ his number.”

Daryl narrows his eyes. “Yer really goin’ to be that asshole?” It was a statement more than a question.

“Yes. I am really going to be that asshole.” He steps back from the bike and waits, looking down to the man who is now staring at his keys.

After a minute the man nods once and stands from the bike.

“We ain’ ever talk ‘bout this.”

Paul smirks as the man walks past him towards the main part of the town.

*

“Someone pissed someone off,” Daryl mutters as they walk by Paul’s car.

Paul stops in his tracks and stares at the piece of crap he has yet to find a way to fix. The windows he could deal without for another couple weeks before winter gets too close, but looking at the word carved into his car was aggravating to address each time he saw it.

“It’s my car,” he admits. “Hence the Police Report from your friend Rick.”

Daryl looks to the car and back at Paul again. He takes a drag off a cigarette then mutters, “You ain’ good at makin’ friends.”

Paul smirks. “I didn’t realize being a therapist would bring this.”

“Ya’ pissed off a patient of yours?”

Paul shrugs, thinking back to the original question of who might have done such a thing. He could say with certainty now to Tara that it was never Daryl.

Paul waits for Daryl to finish his cigarette before they head inside the single-entry building and up a flight of stairs. Their steps are echoed through the old building as they arrive at the third landing. Paul directs down a hallway, stopping at the door near the end which sits adjacent to an old-fashioned radiator.

 Daryl nearly stumbles upon entry, but once Paul shuts the door behind him he cautiously gazes around the single room.

“There’s a bathroom through that door if you need it. I apologize for not exactly having a guest room –or a separate room for that matter, but I couldn’t pass up this studio. I can take the couch. The bed is probably more comfortable.”

Paul particularly enjoyed one part about this town so far. It had buildings that had been standing since the early 40’s, the kind meant to last with brick exteriors that also worked as inside barrier walls. The floors creaked as he walked across them and often he could hear neighbors going about their daily lives. But for some reason he liked this compared to the modern architecture. Before here he had lived with Alex in their Condo. But the tall walls were bleached white and despite all the furnishings he added, he could never make the inside feel warm enough.

The oak flooring with rusted brick lining the walls sank into Paul’s bones the minute he toured the apartment. It was small and the last tenants hadn’t dusted very well, but it had immediately felt warm even with the innards bare and worn from years of residents.  

“The couch’s fine,” Daryl says as he moves nearer to it. He stops part way and looks down at Donetello’s aquarium.

“Ya’ like turtles.”

“What?” Paul asks as he digs through a cupboard pulling from it a stack of sheets and a blanket.

“Ya’ drew a turtle on your cup. And this guy,” Daryl says pointing towards the tank.

“Oh yeah.” He hadn’t realized Daryl had noticed his drawing on his coffee cup from their last session. Paul works at spreading the sheets over the couch. “I guess when I was younger I moved from place to place a lot. I always had this stuffed turtle despite all the constant changes. One of the last moves I lost him. But my love for turtles never faded.”

He finishes the last few touches on the couch and then excuses himself to the bathroom. Paul washes his hands while staring at his own reflection in the mirror. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes dark from fatigue. To make matters worse his stomach was beginning to clench from all of the alcohol he’d ingested over the last couple hours.

But it wasn’t his reflection or how his stomach felt that occupied Paul’s thoughts. His client that was out drinking when he was supposed to be working on being sober, now about to sleep on his drunk counselor’s couch.

A cute client, really. Not that he let himself think on that during their sessions –but now, when his professional walls were stripped and the alcohol prominent he let his conscious drift to the way Daryl’s arms could so easily flex with little movement, the way his hair trailed in waves past his ears. And god those fucking eyes that Paul secretly ingested in the parking lot when the smoke drifted past them. Most of all was the way it was so simple for Daryl to intimidate Paul with as much as a gaze.

And here he was, on his couch knowing that Paul had the upper hand tonight.

None of it made any sense, yet Paul couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of it. He wanted to tell Tara. And come to think of it she hadn’t called him to let him know she’d made it safe as promised.

Paul quickly changes into the sweat pants he’d brought with him and then steps out of the bathroom. He fumbles with his phone in attempt to dial her. As the phone rings he finds Daryl already crashed on the couch, sound asleep.

When Tara doesn’t answer, Paul sends her a frustrated text before crawling into bed.

*

When he wakes up to the throb in his skull from the direct sunlight that hits his head, Paul fights to open them remembering the guest who is on his couch. When he looks at the couch, he is slightly disappointed to see that Daryl has already gone, leaving behind a neat pile of the folded sheets and blanket.

Paul glances at the clock and sees it’s near mid-afternoon and that despite being hung-over, his body feels rested and his mind clear.

He hadn’t slept that well for longer than he could recall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this update took longer. Thanks for reading and hopefully will have an update in the next week or two!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for one thing that happens in this chapter.  
> I don't want to spoil what it is by using trigger tags, because every time you read a new story or book, there is risk that things included will be upsetting to you. I want your reaction to be just as authentic as if you were to read this out of a book that you have never heard of before.  
> Just know its nothing sexual. I will include the tag 'animal abuse' just to be safe.   
> So with that, just know that good things do come to an end, but when these doors close there is always opportunity for someone to step up and fill that painful void for someone else.   
> (That is the only spoiler I will offer about what occurs as a 'happy ending' because I'm really trying to not ruin where this goes.)

Paul pulls down the cookbook from a cupboard and lays it open on the counter top. He skims over the text as he opens up a drawer to remove a knife. His finger tips trace over the frame of random utensils until he retracts his hand frustrated. The knife isn’t found anywhere in the drawer so Paul turns to check in the dishwasher.

Stepping over Donatello who is pattering through the kitchen, Paul drops down and offers the turtle a lettuce leaf who takes it from his hand.

When it’s not found in the dishwasher then either, Paul runs a hand through his beard puzzled while scanning the kitchen, trying to recall the last time he had used it.

It was definitely to cut limes the other night when Tara was here. And if he recalled correctly, he’d washed it the next day and could distinctly remember putting it away.

Paul sighs, giving up on the unimportant situation and  instead pulls out a comparable blade, chopping the tomato to the particular instructions that the cookbook ordered. He mixed the rest of the ingredients and separated the dish into five containers for his weekly dinners.

He was cleaning up the mess when his cell phone rang lighting up a picture of Tara’s face on the screen. Paul swiped the screen to the side allowing the call to connect.

“Hey,” he said casually as he leaned over the fridge putting his items away.

“Dude. I am so sorry, please don’t say you’re mad at me.”

“To be honest I really needed to be home. Besides, I get it. You were there for me when I needed it and I will always be thankful. She will be no different.”

“Yeah well, guess who made up already?”

“You’ve got to be kidding me?”

“Nope. 48 hours dude. 48 hours!”

Paul scoffs. He holds his phone to his ear with his shoulder as he washes the dishes and listens to his friend describe the details of Rosita and Abrahams breakup, following the details behind their making-up.

As he is standing in the middle of the kitchen wiping his hands dry, he finds himself starring at his trashcan with the lid out of place lid left upside down. Furrowing his brow while trying to focus on Tara’s story, Paul inches closer to the can. When he lifts the lid up he mouths the words ‘ _what the fuck’_ when he sees the missing knife piercing into the heart of a shirt, laying alone in an empty trashcan. He hadn’t taken out the trash for over a day and knew it had been partially filled, nearing ready to be emptied. The fact that it was freshly lined with the knife...

Paul felt his heart thrumming in his chest while Tara’s muffled words drabbled on with her story.

He steps back from the can and firmly places the phone on his counter. He steers towards his windows and grabs onto the partially-drawn curtain. As he begins to draw it shut, he catches the headlights on a car parked below the window snap to life before the car drives away.

*

 

He’s wiping his eyes, startled from the knock on his therapy door that startles him from a deep sleep when Olivia enters.  “Your 9:00 is here,” she says as she steps aside and allows Daryl to enter.

Paul glances at the clock. 8:59

He stands up and says thank you to the receptionist before shutting the door behind her. He’d been pouring over case notes since early in the morning. Unable to sleep at his studio last night he’d eventually got ready for work at early light. Just as the sun peeked through the shades and the arrival of other therapists began, Paul felt himself drift off to sleep with a fresh cup of coffee hardly touched.

Paul apologizes as he sluggishly gathers the paper work he’d been sleeping on and shuffles it into the briefcase. He finds Daryl watching him as he takes a seat across from the older man. He wipes a hand through his hair pulling the strands from his face while he clears his throat and takes a sip of coffee before. Paul offers to get Daryl a cup, who shakes his head, still eyeing the therapist as he settles himself.

The events from the weekend, finding Daryl drunk at the bar, inviting him to sleep over –all of those details suddenly seemed insignificant to the events from the night before.

It was like a mantra over and over in his head, _someone was in my home._

He’d nearly forgotten about it as Daryl sat before him, his eyes locked onto the younger man who was still messing with papers, pens, trying to orientate himself when he typically seemed _too calm_ to the older man.

Paul clears his throat. “Thank you for arriving on time.”

Daryl allows a swift movement of his shoulder trying to disregard the comment. He waited for the therapist to bring up the weekend. Bring up how he was caught trying to drive his bike home… how he’d been such a prick when he was offered help.

When he was at least 16, he’d tagged along with his older brother Merle to one of his friend’s parties in the middle of nowhere. He’d been stumbling drunk hardly able to walk in a straight line and the details were still foggy, but things he could remember before he blacked out included a whole group of Merle’s friends determined to see just how drunk they could get the teenager. He remembers the group of hicks passing him shot after shot until the rest of the memory was erased by alcohol. When he woke up the next day, he was alone in the middle of a field with dead cigarette butts and broken bottles around him. Merle had apparently taken off to fuck some chick.

He’d left his kid brother to fend for himself that night and to walk the 7 miles back home with the worst hangover of his life. He called Daryl a sniveling sissy when Daryl confronted Merle the next day.

And over this last weekend he was hardly anywhere near that drunk. But still that bright eyed hippie appeared who hardly knew anything about him or who he was, yet he was bound determined that Daryl should do anything stupid.

“’Bout the bar… jus’…” Daryl swallows, his eyes careful to look anywhere but the knuckles of his hands. “…thanks.”

Paul finishes the rest of his coffee. He throws the cup in the trash and turns to the man. “Your welcome. I’m sorry I was such a prick about it. I’m typically not the blackmailing type, but I know how much Rick cares about you. It’s rare… finding that kind of friendship, just so you know.”

Daryl pauses for a long moment, his eyes soft while they look at Paul. “Jus’ people bein’ nice… ain’ used to that. Caring about me and all.” Daryl hides his face as he tucks his chin in low. “Always had some purpose whenever they did.”

“Not all compassion is followed by an immediate intention. Some people genuinely care… because they want to see those around them happy.”

“Don’ always feel that way.”

“What about your friend Rick? Could you say the same for him?”

Daryl considers this and instead of answering looks at Paul who is able to read his answer with Daryl’s gentle expression.

“Was he the first person to show you caring without an alternative motive?”

Daryl nods once. “Felt like I owed him for the longest time. Couldn’ ever figure out how I could until I did.”

“What do you mean, ‘until you did’?”

Daryl shakes his head and then lifts his head to glance at the clock.

Paul lowers his tone. “What did you mean by that, Daryl?”

Daryl wipes at his face with a swipe from his hand. His leg is restless as it shakes up and down. At once he stands and mutters, “Ain’ fuckin’ matter, what’s done is done.”

Without giving Paul a chance he leaves the room with another fifteen minutes of their session remaining.

 

*

 

Paul opens the door to his apartment with his set of keys, immediately flicking on the lights as he shuts the door behind him, checking twice that the deadbolt is in place.

He cautiously steps inside, glancing in every corner and behind every large surface. His body is tense, ready to react if someone jumps out at him. Paul silently creeps to the bathroom, violently ripping back the shower curtain.

Nothing.

Paul tells himself to check inside the trash can, finding it untouched since he changed the bag yesterday. He’d hidden the knives during the night after the car had driven away. Checking the hidden spot behind his books on the shelf, he is relieved to see they are left in secret.

He finds himself looking through cupboards, flipping through stacks of paper on his desk. Nothing.

He’d swore that he left his door locked the day before, but had he truly, he couldn’t recall that detail that had been split into fragments by the rest of the day’s activities. He was sure this morning to check that his door was locked just so there’d be no doubt of it today.

But after a thorough search of his studio, he doesn’t know if he is more relieved or frustrated to find not one thing out of place. He checks again that his door is locked and that his drapes are shut. Eventually he sighs, running a hand over his exhausted features.

Grabbing his briefcase that had been disregarded at the door, he brings his day’s work over to his desk. Turning on the laptop, Paul waits for it to load as he preps a mug of tea. Sitting cross legged in his chair, he checks emails before opening a file with all of his patient’s private information.

After completing most of his patients details from the day, Paul leaves the last of his time for Daryl.

Daryl, the one patient who he refuses to take notes on anymore while in session. But he’s practiced remembering details from their conversations over the last few weeks so typing his notes comes easy. Yet, somehow he remembers other details from their sessions that are irrelevant to what he needs to know.

When he recalls what Daryl had said, other things about their session come forefront to his mind such as the way Daryl carefully watched him as he got himself together. How Daryl smelled as he walked past like thick musk, cigarettes and crisp morning air from his bike ride into town.

Now whenever Paul steps outside and is met by the cold breeze bringing with it the smell of autumn, his mind wanders to a particular dark-haired man.  

And today he’d struck something that he couldn’t quite figure out what had happened during their session. Daryl had been disclosing information from his past as well as feelings about the present. And then something was said… in regard to owing Rick, that caused the mood to change. He’d stormed out, something that hadn’t happened since the beginning of their sessions.

And when he checked with Olivia, Daryl hadn’t rescheduled for the following week.

But Daryl’s decisions were in his own hands, and Paul knew he couldn’t hand-feed his way through his court-mandated therapy. There came a point where Paul knew he needed to take a step back and allow the man to decide his own future whether or not the fact that Daryl may not return sat unsettled in Paul’s gut.

Stretching with his arms above his head, Paul yawns just now glancing at the clock to see it near his bedtime. He decides that tonight he could at least try to catch some undisturbed sleep.

He closes the lid to the silver laptop, for once not caring about the messy pile of papers he chooses to leave at his desk.

Paul shuts off all the lights to his apartment and uses his phone’s flashlight to find his way over to his bed where he pulls back his blankets and crawls in. Plugging in the phone and setting an alarm, Paul lets out a long sigh that he’d been holding in since he arrived at home.

Shutting his eyes and feeling sleep begin to take over, he suddenly remembers that Donetello hadn’t yet been fed this evening.

Paul contemplates the effects of letting Donatello go without food for just one night. Paul forces himself to open his eyes and stares overhead at the street lights that push light through his curtains and stretch shapes on the ceiling. Sighing, he rips back the blankets and pads barefoot across the hardwood to the turtle’s tank.

Turning on the tank light he reaches for the pellet food and unscrews the lid.

It would be an understatement to say what he saw was unfair, or unjust. That such a small creature with no awareness of this universe or rules would be the one to be targeted with such violence.

And Paul can’t help the feeling of heartbreak meshed with terror that clenches his heart, causing him to drop of the jar of pellets that scatter across his floor sending pellets over his bare feet. Nor can he help the muffled sob that escapes him when he sees Donatello.

The little creature he’d been acquainted with that had brought several smiles to his face day after day, and the company that made cold days not feel so lonely. A sob escapes Paul when he reaches down and touches the creature that lay upside down in the tank, it’s body lifeless and still when Paul picks him up in his hands.

The little creature had the life squeezed from him by the hands of such violence.

The word ‘ _Fucker_ ’ carved across the bottom of his shell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for doing that. This honestly is needed to turn this story in the direction that it will now go in.  
> It's going to be the push for Paul that causes him to react in the way he does for future chapters.  
> And I can promise I will make up for it later on, but details about that I won't spoil. 
> 
> Also, I will not be updating as frequently. Fall quarter of school starts next week so I won't be finding the time as much as I'd like to for updating, but I will finish this story. Writing is my outlet and I always try and find the time to do it. 
> 
> If you want to follow my Desus stuff on Tumblr, go to https://www.tumblr.com/blog/jesusandreedusprompts and follow me.

**Author's Note:**

> I've written a chunk of this already and pretty much know exactly where I want this to go. I decided to publish the first chapter early in order to get a feel for the kind of response it receives.  
> This work could receive around 10 chapters, give or take. 
> 
> Also, if there are any mistakes I apologize. Writing is not easy!!


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